


couldn't utter my love

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, got a case of the sads and wrote this, it's alright in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18990868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: There are some things that Poirot and Hastings cannot have.Hastings is wonderfully self-sacrificing, sometimes. Poirot is half-tempted to pinch some sense into him.





	couldn't utter my love

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i ought to emphasise that i did not intend this to be sad at all, and that this is just Where We Are, Right Now.

The case has proven an - awkward one. Poirot never especially likes to admit to missing anyone, but now, with the Wiltshire constabulary insisting upon locking up the wrong person and deliberately stymying his own investigation at every turn, he finds himself wanting Inspector Japp rather terribly. The whole thing seems, too, to revolve around a collection of nigh-incomprehensible papers, organised so haphazardly as to give Poirot a headache - the sort of thing Miss Lemon would take to with delight over her morning tea. He is rather tempted to send for them both, but Wiltshire will not have Japp and, with an elderly aunt in need of care, Miss Lemon will not have Wiltshire.

Hastings’ hand drops onto his shoulder, one thumb pressing a gentle, soothing circle through the layers of his suit. Poirot had not thought himself obviously disturbed, but at this simple touch a great sigh pushes from the depths of his chest and his hands unconsciously relax their too-tight grip upon the glass in his lap. _Cher_ Hastings. At least he is here when needed. Poirot reaches up to cover his dear friend’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and leans back into the sofa cushions. The gloomy room no longer illuminates the papers well enough to read and Poirot has the distinct impression that he is squinting for nothing; there is something else to this case, some key to crack these papers wide open, but until then Poirot is wasting his time, his eyes, and his little grey cells.

The firelight dances prettily in his tumbler, refracting through the cut glass in tiger stripes of flame, but Poirot ignores this beauty in favour of another: he twists in his seat to look behind him and Hastings, hair in disarray from repeated hand combing, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows and shirt quite open at his neck, smiles down.

“Can I help, or ought you really to be taking a break?” he murmurs, rubbing another small circle into Poirot’s collarbone and shifting the bundle cuddled close between his other arm and his chest.

“ _Mon ami_ , always you can help,” Poirot says. A token resistance, and Hastings knows it as such.

“Oh, right. Then my help tonight will be _telling_ you to stop,” Hastings replies, smile turning a little teasing, and Poirot’s heart skips a little in delight even as he furrows his brows in pretended annoyance. He makes no attempt to return to the work, even when the little bundle interrupts with a tiny cough and Hastings has to retrieve his hand from Poirot’s shoulder to adjust the baby’s position on his shoulder.

The baby. The other little awkwardness in this case. Poirot has rather clear ideas about where the child and her elder brother _should_ be: back in their own nursery, under the watchful eye of their father and nursemaid. Failing that, since Inspector Foley has seen it fit to unjustly arrest both caregivers remaining to the infants, the children should be with some useful relations - all of whom are presently holidaying in the south of France, and even with the miracles of modern telegrams and transportation will not be returned before the week is out. The only relations remaining are an aunt and her husband, both quite horrid and entirely probably murderers, and even should they have wanted to take the children Poirot would not have permitted it. The children should be with someone who will care for them, even if only for a week and without any familial tie, and so the young Master and Miss St. Claire should be with Hastings.

 _They should,_ Poirot’s more righteous and sentimental side corrects, _be with their mother._

But there is no justice that Poirot can see, in the gloom disrupted only by dim lamps and a hungry, licking fire. No rhyme or reason to the acts of men to justify or even explain the gross and terrible unfairness that has been wrought upon this house. Perhaps there is none, and Poirot is simply grasping at these pages to seek a clear, logical reason for something so unreasonable as two motherless children.

Hastings stretches out a long leg and nudges his ankle, startling him once more from his reverie. Poirot had hardly even seen Arthur as he had rounded the room, gently rocking the infant, before settling, almost horizontal, on the settee opposite. Hastings looks at him, fond and gently curious, edged with concern and almost glowing in the gentle amber light.

A wave of affection rolls through him, dancing on the tip of his tongue. “I am glad you are here with me, _mon cher_ Arthur.”

They are being ever so careful, even in these private rooms; this is a foreign house, not the familiar sanctum of Whitehaven Mansions, and their only allies usually in residence are at present - indisposed - and as such Poirot ought really not to have said anything so bold. But Hastings smiles, and the gloomy room is ever so slightly lighter, and Poirot cannot bring himself to regret it. “Of course, old thing,” he replies gently, and Poirot adores the way Hastings is always and has always been ready to drop everything and fly to Poirot’s aid, should he be desired; there had been no comfort like the sight of his dear Captain stepping off the London train only a few hours after Poirot had telephoned to request his presence on this social-call-turned-murder-investigation after all, and Poirot is glad of it.

The baby sprawled on Hastings’ chest yawns expansively and turns her head to press her face into his neck. His hands look so broad, almost as wide as the infant’s back as they slide soothingly up and down - or perhaps it is that the child looks so very small, and Poirot’s mind rebels against the knowledge of how young this victim is. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a baby,” Hastings muses, and Poirot allows himself to be distracted from his morbid, tragic spiralling.

“ _Non, mon ami,_ I do not have your experience. How is it that you do?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m always being handed an endless parade of other people’s children; you know, one’s cousins, and one’s cousins’ children, and one’s friends’ children, and so forth. I was given charge of all the young Hastings children every summer and I dare say it gave me something of a reputation.” Miss St. Claire rears her head to stare suspiciously at Hastings and he nods. “Yes, it did,” he tells her very seriously. “Ever since, people hardly seem able to stop giving me their offspring.”

Poirot feels the smile that has crept, without his permission, onto his face and disguises it poorly with his fingertips. “Alas, Poirot’s friends were not so eager to give away _leurs enfants_ ,” he says, feigning sadness.

Hastings snorts softly, offering his hand for the baby to grab at in lieu of his collar. “You weren’t so eager to take them, you mean,” he corrects, and Poirot smiles. “I should hardly have been surprised that this was what you wanted me here for; that terrier, Bob, was far less hassle and you tried to fob him off on me too.”

“That is not the greatest reason I wanted you with me,” Poirot says softly, and Hastings’ smile shifts from amused to fond.

“I know,” he replies, just as soft. It’s the most and the best that either of them can say, just now. Far too dangerous to risk an _I love you_ \- it might ruin them both, or at least destroy the case, and those words are not worth the risk of innocents incarcerated and children left almost orphaned. But Poirot does love him, more than he could ever possibly say even if it were safe to do so, and the words, in cacophonic mix of French and English and _Arthur,_ just Arthur, press against the dam of his lips and he wishes, oh, how he wishes-

“I know,” Arthur says again, even softer this time, and Poirot sighs. There is a great deal they both wish to say, and the best they can manage is _I know_ ; Poirot longs to curl into Hastings’ side and stay there until the sun comes up and the world makes sense again, and the best he can manage is two ankles, clad in layers of trouser and boot and spats and socks, stretched across the vast expanse dividing their separate sofas to gently bump together.

Poirot has not felt childish in a very long time, but just now he is sad and he is tired and he wants, more than anything, to go _home._

“The Inspector Foley, he says-”

“No, dear old thing,” Hastings says firmly. There is the slightest of pauses after _dear_ , as if the latter part had been tacked on as an afterthought. “You won’t get anything done now, you know that. In the morning, we’ll have a look at these papers together.”

Poirot scoffs crossly. He simply wants this case _done_ , and Hastings will not allow him even to discuss it! “Oh, yes, I’m sure that will be of the great help,” he says derisively, miserably, folding his arms and glaring into the fire. It’s dying slowly down; they shall have to go upstairs, soon, into their own, separate, lonely beds, where Poirot will lie very still and cold and alone and stew for hours on that last little sentence. He will think of the snappish way he had said it, the cold silence that followed, the miserable little ball of self-inflicted pain that lodged carefully under his sternum.

Poirot stands and crosses to the other sofa, sitting ever so slightly closer than is proper to stiff, still Hastings. “I did not mean that,” he says, quietly and clearly. “I would be glad of your help, _mon cher ami._ ”

Hastings turns the tail end of a hurt frown upon him and Poirot tries not to wince. Then, at last, Arthur sighs and shifts the baby to his other shoulder, in the process leaning very subtly in and pressing their arms together. Poirot is forgiven. “I know you want this solved,” Hastings says gently, looking at the baby rather than Poirot, “but you really ought to wait until morning.”

Poirot is saved from agreeing by a small figure in a nightgown, one hand wrapped around the doorjamb nervously and the other being gently and absently chewed. “I can’t sleep,” little James St. Claire explains anxiously, after a moment of the adults’ curious gazes upon him. His eyes keep flitting from Hastings to Poirot and back again.

“I’m not surprised,” Hastings says easily. “You’ve had a tremendously eventful time, and even the best and bravest of us might struggle after a day like today.” James has been edging carefully forward, dragging his toes on the carpet and continuing to worry his fingertips between his teeth, but when Hastings invitingly opens one arm the boy gives up on all pretence and races over the carpet to fling himself into Hastings’ lap. His back presses gently against Poirot’s side, pushing Arthur’s arm, but Poirot finds he does not much mind it. Perhaps there is comfort for them all in it. James curls up against Hastings’ chest, head pillowed under Arthur’s collarbone and knees tucked up to his shoulders, and Arthur gives both armfuls of children a gentle squeeze. “You’re being ever so very brave, though.”

“I want daddy back,” James protests, and Poirot looks intently at his fingers. It is rare that Poirot is so obviously confronted with the direct consequences of failure, but now - now the stakes are so high, the consequences so dire and lasting, and Poirot grasps for his endless supply of self-confidence and finds it just out of reach. What if the real killer cannot be found? If the father cannot be exonerated of his wife’s murder?

What if Poirot fails?

“And you shall have him back,” Hastings says soothingly. “Very soon, I promise. The police are just asking him some questions and then he will be right back here. I shall tell him what a good, brave boy you’ve been and he’ll be ever so proud of you.” Hastings looks over the boy’s head, straight at Poirot, piercing the doubts that have mingled in his eyes. “We shall get your daddy back,” he says firmly, and Poirot blinks, breathes deeply, nods. _We shall have to get him back, for failure is no alternative at all._

James nods, apparently satisfied with Hastings’ confidence, and presses his little face into the warm solid body beneath his cheek. It is amazing to Poirot, as the four of them, still and silent, listen to the gentle cracking of the logs in the fire as they heave and sigh and crumble under the onslaught of mindless, greedy flames, how _good_ with children Hastings is. He has known these children for a matter of hours, and yet they curl into him for comfort. Their father is imprisoned, their mother murdered, and yet do they cry? Do they linger, unloved and uncomforted, in the shadows of the investigation? Do they tiptoe on bare, hesitant feet to the door of the butler, or the housekeeper, or their aunt and uncle? No, for Hastings is here. He speaks to them calmly, without complication or pretence, and they trust and believe him. Earlier, Hastings had sat quietly upon the carpet in the nursery for hours, occupying the children with stories and games and toys so that they never heard Foley, downstairs, roaring a list of accusations at their father, never saw him hauled out to the police van, lifted almost bodily off the ground in his desire to protest his innocence and return to the children he loves. They never heard Poirot protest, but not enough; they did not see him fail.

James yawns hugely, and Hastings smiles down at the lad. With two children ranged upon him, one already fast asleep and the other shortly to join her, Hastings is Poirot’s very image of the caring father. He permits them to use him as a climbing frame, he soothes them patiently to sleep, he is fond and gentle and affectionate.

A thought occurs to Poirot, and despite his best efforts it will not go away.

“Right,” Hastings says softly. “Time for bed.” James begins to make a face and open his mouth to protest, but Arthur hardens slightly - not quite a stern frown, but certainly a firm look. “Now, James, I want to be able to tell your father how well-behaved you’ve been when he gets back. Don’t spoil it.”

James yawns again and nods, slithering off Hastings’ lap and rubbing his eyes. Arthur heaves himself upright, careful not to disturb baby Alice, and smoothes a hand over James’ hair. The boy wriggles to get free and Arthur grins, offering the hand to hold instead. Poirot would never have thought to make such a game of it, or even to offer the boy a hand to hold for the short walk back to the nursery, but Hastings makes it look ever so natural.

The detective finds himself standing too, and Hastings tilts his head in silent question. “Bed time for us all, _n’est ce pas?_ ” he says, and James nods, swinging his and Arthur’s joined hands. In truth Poirot simply wishes to watch Hastings, so informal and sweet with a baby on his shoulder and a child swinging from his hand, _en désarroi_ and smiling, but Hastings accepts this answer well enough.

Arthur leads the sleepy boy through the shadowy hallways, listening with the occasional quiet word of encouragement to the boy’s plans of things to do together the following day - until his father comes home, of course. Poirot rather suspects that the truth of what has happened to the boy’s mother has not quite sunk in yet; Alice is too young to ever remember her in the years to come. It’s a terrible sadness that has befallen this house, but Poirot has to believe that light will come to it. In the end.

Poirot stands in the doorway as James clambers into his bed and Arthur, ever so carefully, lays Alice in her cot without her even stirring. He brushes his fingers gently over her brow, and there’s something in his eye, a little sad, almost wistful, before he shakes his head slightly to rid his face of it and turns to James with his usual calm affection.

The idea takes hold in Poirot’s mind with more vehemence than before.

They are fortunate to have rooms close to each other and far from the house’s other occupants, he and Arthur; Poirot has less compunction about drawing his dressing gown tightly about himself and knocking hesitantly on Hastings’ door.

“Come in.” Hastings’ room is dark, lit only by the lamp on the bedside table. Arthur himself is already in bed, twirling a pen absently between his fingers; a sure sign the man is thinking about something. “Hullo, Poirot.”

“You are occupied,” Poirot says quickly. Hastings has something on his mind, and Poirot is abruptly terrified that it might be the same idea that he cannot rid himself of. “I will leave you to your rest.”

“Poirot-” Hastings says as Poirot turns to leave, swinging his legs out of bed and crossing the room quickly in a few long strides. He is behind Poirot, with an arm reaching past to push the door closed, before any escape can be effected. Helpless, Poirot turns to face him, bracketed against the door by Hastings’ chest and arm, and finds himself wrapped in a tight embrace. He clings with tight fists to Hastings’ shirt and buries his face in the join of his neck and shoulder. “Poirot, my love, what is it?” Hastings murmurs, ever so quiet.

“I love you,” Poirot chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and burning for the answer.

“I love you too,” Arthur says, immediate and gentle, if a little worried, and Poirot breathes out. “Dearest, what is it?”

Poirot shakes his head slightly, still pressed tightly to Arthur, who seems similarly disinclined to pull away. “Nothing. The case, it-” he breaks off.

Arthur sighs. “Yes, I know. Bloody awful.” Poirot rubs his back with a thumb; swearing is a sign that Hastings is truly unhappy indeed. “Those poor children.”

Poirot hums in agreement. They stand, wrapped about each other secretly in the gloom, for a long minute. Someday, perhaps, Poirot might embrace his love in the light, for all to see, but not now. Not yet.

“Arthur, _cher_ , do I - deprive you?”

There is a long pause whilst Hastings thinks about this. “In what sense, dear?”

Poirot shrugs, not moving his face to look at Arthur. He wants to know and cannot, will not, look.

“Well,” Arthur says thoughtfully. “You keep me well-fed, I suppose, although I pay for that too. And, um, you sometimes keep case information from me when you’ve worked it out, but that’s alright, and you don’t keep anything serious from me. I hope.” Poirot shakes his head again and feels Hastings nod. “Right. Well, that’s fine, then. And, um. You and I, we. Uh. As much as I - well. Not when we’re away, obviously, but. In _our_ room, at home. You don’t, um, _deprive_ me there. So that’s. Um.”

Poirot smiles despite himself against Hastings’ chest, and he must feel it through his thin shirt because Poirot receives a small pinch to his side for it. He can almost feel Arthur blushing from here, and it’s simply tremendously endearing.

“Well, anyway. I’m not deprived,” Hastings says, trying to retain some modicum of dignity. Poirot doesn’t mind; he loves Arthur ruffled and unruffled, especially if he gets to do the ruffling. “So there. What’s brought this on, then?”

The smile drops from Poirot’s face as he remembers the idea. “Poirot simply wonders,” he begins, oddly halting and hesitant, “whether you might not have liked to have children. Someday.”

“Oh,” Hastings says, as if the idea has only just now occurred to him, and Poirot winces. He should never have said - now Arthur will think of his missed opportunities, and leave Poirot for a lady who can give him all that Poirot cannot: open, public affection, in the light, with children milling about their knees. Little tiny Arthurs, with auburn hair.

But perhaps this is best, after all; Poirot will step aside, for _cher_ Arthur’s happy future. Perhaps they will ever be friends, and Poirot will learn to be easy with children for the sake of these little tiny Arthurs that will never be his.

Arthur interrupts Poirot’s private anguish. “But you don’t want children, do you?”

He’s rather thrown by this non-sequitur. “ _Non, mon-_ Arthur, but you and I - we cannot have children.”

“Oh, well, no, obviously. But even if we could, you wouldn’t want to. So-” he shrugs.

Hastings is wonderfully self-sacrificing, sometimes. Poirot is half-tempted to pinch some sense into him. “But you could be with someone else,” he points out, a little crossly. “A lady, with whom to have the family, eh? Who _does_ want to have children, and _can_ have them.”

There is another pause in the wake of these words. “But then I wouldn’t have you,” Arthur says softly. It seems to echo in the silence, resounding inside Poirot’s skull. “And I _want_ to have you, far more than any wedding or wife or child. I want _you_.”

Poirot is a little stunned. “But - the children - you love-?”

Hastings laughs softly and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “Dear Hercule, I have just as much to do with children as I want, simply by waiting for other people to hand them to me. I love you, more than I ever have anyone or anything, and if you declared an intention to move to the North Pole and take up ice fishing I would be shivering alongside you. I won’t leave you, not for wives or weddings or warm, sunny skies. And you are _not_ depriving me of anything.”

Poirot finally untucks his face from Hastings’ neck. Arthur is looking down at him, eyes full of love, and Poirot is forced to concede that maybe, just maybe, Arthur is telling him the truth about this. The unstoppable force of Arthurian sincerity is no match for the fairly movable object of Herculean doubt and he sighs. “You will tell me,” he says, a last token resistance, “if I am?”

“Yes,” Arthur says firmly. “And you are not. You’re more than enough for me, hmm?” Arthur suddenly looks thoughtful. “Although…”

“What?” Poirot says quickly, too quickly.

Arthur grins. “You might give me a kiss.”

Poirot rolls his eyes and Arthur chuckles. “Just the one,” he warns. “And no more.”

Hastings nods good-temperedly. “I know; not the place. Just the one, I promise.”

Kissing Arthur is like coming home. It’s comfort and quiet and Poirot’s brain can simply - switch off, and float on waves of pure pleasure. It’s easy and it’s natural and Poirot would not, could not give it up for the world; not for every little tiny auburn Arthur his brain can conjure.

And when Arthur parts from him, smiling with red, ever-so-very-tempting lips, and Poirot catches him at the nape of the neck and draws him back down, Arthur - usually so very good at keeping his promises - only laughs, and follows quite happily where Poirot leads him.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they solved the case and the dad is released and the kids are fine, i promise.
> 
> for those interested, this is influenced (as many fictional detectives and the majority of country house murder mysteries are) by the murder at road hill house. foley was a real and dangerously inept policeman in wiltshire, and the case was a very sad one.


End file.
